Chapter VIII

✧A Dreamer’s Lament✧

Sunday, April 7th 2019 appr. 0730 am JST, Tokyo, Japan

As the hours slip away, I can somehow feel as the others drift away, succumbing to their own exhaustion. After the food and water are gone and the others begin falling silent, I continue to speak with Itō-san. He is pretty charming, or perhaps, since I have not had the chance to talk to many boys in a while. All I know is that, even though I cannot see him, it is just lovely to have somebody to talk to again.

As the lamp in my compartment dims, the space gradually becomes enveloped in a hushed stillness, broken only by the sounds of the other’s snores and peaceful breaths. I believe Itō-san and I are the last ones awake.

As we each lay in our separate compartments, I begin thinking and cannot shake the feeling that I have a strange connection to this place. Even though the aesthetic is very different, the magical lamp reminds me of the dream that haunted me once long ago.

Not even sure if Itō-san is awake, I think aloud about the dream. Even if he is asleep, I tell him about it for unknown reasons. “This place reminds me of a dream I used to have every night for fifteen years at the beginning of my life. In it, I was a pregnant nun being chased down by men in red robes and dark armor.” I wait for a response until I hear him slightly snoring on the other side of the wall. “Guess you did not hear any of that, did you?” I say aloud, sure I am alone. 

A rich baritone voice emerges from one of the other compartments. “That sounds like an interesting story.” I freeze, taken completely by surprise. “And you had this dream as a baby then?” He asks me.

I am unsure who he is exactly, so I am hesitant to respond at first. “Yeah, every night.” I pause before awkwardly continuing, “Well, until the coma happened, that is.”

“Oh? I heard you mention that to the other man. Must be a tough thing to go through.” He responds, “I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Cameron Turner, but you can call me Cameron. What’s your name?”

Hesitantly, I reply, “M-maho, my name is Sakurai Maho.”

Without missing a beat, he responds, “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sakurai.”

“The pleasure is mine, Turner-san.” I awkwardly say.

“And I heard you mention that there was a knight that protected you?” He asks, his voice seeming genuinely interested in the dream I rarely shared back at home.

Nodding my head, even though he cannot see me, “Yeah, I had to watch him die every night, trying his best to protect me.” Recalling the scene I have not seen in years, doing my best to remember the details of it. “You know, I never got used to it either,” I remember it being the most challenging part of the dream to watch, and if I miss any part of it, that part certainly would not have been it.

“I’d be worried if you had gotten used to something like that.” He responds, “Must have been a tough thing to dream about as a child.”

“You have no idea.” I blankly say.

“Guess I don’t. Look, since your old knight may very likely be dead, and you haven’t really seen him in years, let me be your new knight. I’ll do my best to keep you and the others safe here in this odd place we find ourselves in.” I chuckle as he continues, “I mean if you need protecting, that is.” He finishes speaking, his words sounding sincere and friendly enough. It is an excellent first impression, from him at least; however, I still feel a little emotionally exposed and awkward.

Continuing to chuckle, I reply, “I would say I have done a pretty fantastic job of that myself, but then again, I did get myself into a coma, after all.” We both now start awkwardly laughing.

I begin feeling the exhaustion taking hold of me as he replies again. “Are you from Japan originally?”

I yawn, “Yes, I was born in Yamagata. How about yourself?”

“Oh, me? I’m an American. My father moved us to Kyoto for his job, and I’ve been living here for three years now.”

“You still think we are in Japan?” I ask, pretty sure we are nowhere near home.

“Yeah, where else would we be?”

“Well, if we are in Japan, how does that explain the magical torches?”

“Oh?” pausing momentarily, perhaps examining his torch, before continuing, “Look at that. I mean, we still could be somewhere in Japan, where there is still some of that old Japanese magic.” He, in turn, yawns before asking me. “How long do you think we’ve been locked up in these cells?”

Quickly, I respond, secretly counting the hours, “About sixteen hours, give or take.” He remains quiet after I answer, so I tell him. “Look, if there was one thing I got good at in the past eight years, it was counting the passing time.” My mind is taken back to that awful hospital room and that dumb, awful clock constantly ticking on the wall.

Beginning to hear him chuckling through the walls, I feel my face turning red as he speaks again, “Makes sense, seeing as it’s been sixteen hours of us doing nothing but sitting in this prison. I think I’m gonna get some sleep then. It was good to talk to you for this small bit of time, but you have a good night, Miss Sakurai, and I hope I get to meet you sometime soon.”

My face still burning red and buried in my hands, I quietly reply, “Goodnight.”

Moments of silence pass as I stare at the ceiling I awoke to earlier. Curiosity tugs at me as I wonder about the others in their own compartments and what sorts of dreams they are experiencing.

Turning my gaze toward where the others are, I can tell they are sleeping in serene slumber. I hear one of them snoring as the others are breathing peacefully. It all seems so tranquil, and I feel reserved in joining them, afraid I may never wake up again if I fall asleep. Sixteen hours have slipped away in this confining space, and I am left feeling both grateful for their company, even if I could not see them, and the strange sense of detachment from the typical passage of time.

Yet, as I lay here, an unsettling sensation creeps over me. It is something I have felt the entire time but was blissfully unaware of as I spoke with my new acquaintances. It is as if unseen eyes are fixated upon me, observing my every move, piercing through the darkness. A shiver runs down my spine, and I instinctively seek solace I cannot find.

As I cover myself in my blanket, continuing to seek some form of comfort, I imagine what the others look like, where they came from, anything to get my mind off of this sensation. I imagine Itō-san is handsome, maybe tall, with striking Japanese features. Turner-san said he was an American, and I really do not know what he could look like, but his voice was rich, and I wonder if his features match it.

My mind immediately focuses on the first voice I heard in this place, the American man I could not understand. As I think of his voice, I think about the knight in my dream. Why him? He is, after all, the only person I could not understand here, yet his voice is the only one that struck a chord deep within me. One I did not know I even had. I cannot explain it, but I felt a profound resonance with him. I imagine whether his hair is brown or black like mine. Whether his eyes were blue like most Americans, or like me, he had brown ones.

It feels as though we are in an enigmatic world and that these others are the key to understanding it. But for now, I can only imagine and listen, unable to bridge the gap between our shared reality.

Thinking about them brings my heart and mind to ease as fatigue begins to overtake me, gradually seeping into my body. I am too frightened to join the rest in sleep; spending the past eight years sleeping might have something to do with that. The heaviness in my eyelids becomes undeniable as a yawn escapes my lips. Sitting against the wall of my bed, the feeling of drowsiness washes over me, a forgotten sensation that now beckons me to surrender. I try to keep myself awake as the inevitable happens and drift away into sleep.

With a final glance at the space around me, I hope this is not the last time I am awake. I finally succumb to the embrace of sleep, drifting away from the compartment and those others around it. I find myself in the pitch-black emptiness once more. None of the others are there with me this time. I guess they passed through when they had fallen asleep before me. The light show of memories begins dancing around me again, reminding me of all the things I miss about my life.

Drifting past them as they disappear like before, and when I open my eyes, I am filled with dread as I find myself back in that awful sterile hospital room’s confines. Floating above my comatose body, I feel a sense of disconnection from the world, once again confined to this state of limbo. Memories of the other world flood my mind. Even though the only memories I have are from a small compartment and the few boys I got to speak with, I am filled with a bittersweet intensity. My first honest conversations in nearly a decade, the laughter I shared with Itō-san, and even the awkward discussion with Turner-san at the end of the night, all fills me with happiness.

The taste of the unique food is still fresh on my mind… was any of it real? Or were they all merely figments of my imagination? These experiences, denied to me for the past eight years, seem too vivid to be mere dreams or hallucinations. Only hoping they were real, that they held some semblance of truth and not just a cruel illusion created by my strained mind.

Gazing down upon my body, I feel a surge of unease course through me in a fleeting moment. The hair on my comatose body’s head appears stark white, a striking contrast against my usual dark locks. Simultaneously, a faint ringing echoes in my ears, originating from nowhere and everywhere at once. Confusion washes over me, and I blink in disbelief as my emotions spiral into a panicked state. And just as quickly as it appeared, my hair returns to its familiar ebony hue as the ringing subsides. Was it a trick of the light, a product of my weary mind, or something more profound?

A shiver runs through the depths of my soul as I contemplate the possibility that time has passed unnoticed, that my physical form has aged beyond recognition. But as I examine myself further, I realize only my hair has changed for the moment, nothing else. There were no wrinkles or signs of age. I sigh, gather my resolve, and remind myself I was only away for what felt like sixteen hours in the other world. When I glance at the clock on the wall, I see that only roughly eight hours have passed in this reality. The calendar still bears the date of 2019. So what did I genuinely witness if I had not aged? What significance does it hold?

I spend the remainder of the day watching over my motionless body, my thoughts consumed by memories of the otherworld and the people I encountered there. It fills me with a profound longing, a yearning to once again experience the simple joys of human connection. The warmth of companionship, their laughter, and the stories they shared all hold newfound significance for me. But it is not enough. I want to be able to see them, to meet them, to be able to touch them, smell them, learn what makes them sad or happy. This would be enough for me.

It is weird the kinds of things you begin to miss when you do not have access to them. I will cherish these moments more now than ever as I continue to realize the depth of their impact on my spirit.

And the food, oh, the food! The flavors dancing upon my tongue, the sensory delight awakened my dormant senses. It was a reminder of the richness of life, the beauty found in the simplest pleasures. The memory of those delectable bites lingers within me, fueling my desire to return to that world where such experiences are not just a fleeting dream but tangible realities.

At least, I hope they are.

I continue to observe the nurses and doctors attending to my physical body. As I do, a flicker of hope ignites within me. I pray for the day when I can genuinely awaken, when I can break free from this stagnant existence and embrace life here once again. I pray for my body’s reawakening, for the release from this sterile hospital room. But now, I also pray to escape to that other world once again, where I can hopefully find a purpose and fulfillment beyond the confines of these walls.

Amid my contemplation, I notice the peculiar phenomenon I felt last night returning. I fixate on my body, and to my surprise, my hair turns white once more. The lone ringing sound begins to chime as curiosity takes hold. I draw nearer, coming within a few centimeters of my face. As I observe, my body’s eyes fly open and stare back into mine. The irises have turned yellow and appear to be glowing with intensity. An unfamiliar voice replaces the ringing sound and resonates from my body, uttering the enigmatic words, “Return, Luminator.”

Startled and perplexed, I blink again, and everything reverts to normal. My hair is dark again, and my body’s eyes are closed. The experience leaves me with more questions than answers but also fuels my determination to break free from this state of limbo. To escape back to the other world. I look at the clock on the wall. As the hands reach the correct positions, the big hand on the six and the small one on the eleven, I begin feeling the sudden and overwhelming exhaustion sweeping over me again.

I smile as I willingly surrender to its embrace, knowing soon I will be waking up in the other world.  With renewed resolve and an unwavering belief in the extraordinary, I continue to fight for my awakening, holding onto the hope that soon I will find myself back in the other world, where life awaits me with open arms.